“My duty is to your family, no’ my own,” he said shortly.
So, would he let his mam die? Without him.
Leaning closer, she said, “Go find her if ye can.”
He lifted Conall’s sword and left them. Like a whisper, he melted into the night, there one moment, gone the next.
Liadan wanted to sob. She wanted to wail and weep. She could not. Dacha’s warriors could even now be hunting the perimeters of the settlement. Silence might save them.
Yet she might never see Ardahl MacCormac again.
The serpent. Her enemy. Yet she ached for him. Missed his presence. The night felt colder without him.
Such strength, such courage to go back into that horror. She could not. She absolutely could not.
Turning, she looked down the slope, trying to peer through the trees. Fully half the settlement burned. Against the flames, dark figures, unidentifiable, ran.
Drawing a breath that smelled of smoke, she turned. “Ye heard Master Ardahl. Let us go.”
*
Ardahl ran. Heforgot his wounds as he went, forgot his battered body. He very nearly forgot those he’d left behind.By the gods, let them keep safe.The terrible scene in front of him claimed all his attention.
The great hall was ablaze, making a towering bonfire that spat sparks and dense smoke. The main body of the fighting seemed to be located not far from there, a dark knot of men all clustered together.
He ran in.
As he went, he wondered if the chief and his family had escaped the flames. No one left inside could survive. Otherbuildings near the hall were well aflame, and his mind tried to put it together.
A raid. The hall set on fire. Other buildings caught from that. There was no wind, but it did not take much to put spark to thatch.
A man appeared before him, taking form like a demon from out of the smoke. Someone he did not know. He raised Conall’s sword.
At once, he felt the pull on his body, the product of torn muscle and flesh.
If I am to die here,he said to Conall in his mind,await me. I got your family away safe.
Not his own.Och, Mam. Och, Mam!
I will keep her safe for ye also,said a voice in his ear. Conall’s voice.
He threw himself into the fray.
The man in front of him went down to Conall’s blade. He stepped over the body, over several others—friend or foe, he did not pause to see. Ahead of him, a grim band of men faced off against the invaders. He saw Dornach there, face set and teeth bared.
Dornach and Cathair and—aye, that was Chief Fearghal, with a sword in his hands.
Instinct took Ardahl around to attack their opponents from the side. The heat here, so close to the fiercest of the burning, was intense enough that he expected his hair to take flame. Sweat poured from him.
He would not let himself heed the pull of exhaustion, the protest of wounded flesh. He held and slashed until the enemy stood no more and he found himself looking into the faces of his fellow tribesmen.
“Come!” Fearghal bellowed. “Away out o’ this!”
They fled the flames, stumbling over corpses. Ardahl’s legs faltered beneath him and his whole body screamed for relief. He followed Dornach’s broad back and they searched for other enemies, but all had flown.
At the edge of the burning, they paused. Other clansfolk hovered here, mostly men and some women. A few children shaking with terror.
Ardahl stared into the faces that surrounded him, black with soot, streaked by sweat and tears. He did not see his mam.
